Everyone falls silent as Dr. Ridgeback strides across the room.
“My name is Bernice Ridgeback, and I am the mother of a young woman who died under mysterious circumstances in the Princess Trials.” Her hard gaze meets mine, making me flinch. She holds me responsible, even though her husband questioned me while I was supposedly under the influence of the truth serum.
“I performed the autopsy on the body of King Arias and discovered a high concentration of atropine in the king’s blood. Atropine is the active compound in mandragon berries.”
General Ridgeback walks to his wife, holding a black box. “The doctor analyzed the toxins in His Majesty’s blood and compared them with poison we found on these darts.”
He reaches into the box, extracts a Harvester uniform, and pulls out a quiver.
Prince Kevon rises and rests his weight on the seats in front. “Stop,” he says through clenched teeth. “Zea. Did. Not—”
He slumps to the floor with a hand clutched to his chest.
“Kevon!” Garrett leaps to his feet and rests me on the seat.
I slump forward, staring straight ahead as panic spreads across the room. Montana and Ingrid’s father rise from their seats and jostle each other to reach Prince Kevon first. The women in black rush to the prince’s aid with an oxygen mask.
Impotent rage surges through my veins. I still can’t move. Didn’t these people believe Garrett the first time he said Prince Kevon needed medical help?
Everyone is too busy looking at Prince Kevon and Garrett to notice Dr. Ridgeback’s fingers moving over something in her pocket. She stares at Queen Damascena, who gives her an encouraging nod.
“His Highness needs a doctor,” cries the Minister of Justice.
“One more thing,” Queen Damascena shouts over the chaos. “My husband’s last moments.”
Everybody stops to look at the screen. Prince Kevon carries me into a room, and we pause at the foot of King Arias’ sickbed. Cold seeps through my insides. This is the palace infirmary on the morning after the ball.
In the next scene, a dark-haired girl creeps back into the room with the quiver, extracts a dart, and stabs his prone figure in the heart. King Arias doesn’t move, and she takes out another dart and stabs him again and again and again.
Every single face turns to me.
“Please, take my son to the hospital,” says Queen Damascena. “He’s suffering a breakdown. The girl he trusted enough to marry has turned out to be an assassin.”
Chapter 21
My insides twist and turn as I struggle to break free of the drug. Loud chatter and hurried footsteps rush toward the observation room’s back row. Everything is a jumble and muffled by the pounding between my ears.
From the angle my head points, I can’t tell if the voices belong to the ministers, to the guards outside, or the henchwomen who held us at gunpoint. Deep breaths heave in and out of my lungs, but I can’t even twitch a finger.
Prince Kevon lies at my feet and groans, as Garrett tries to roll him onto his back. All I can do is slump forward against the seat in front, unable to speak, unable to warn anyone to check Dr. Ridgeback’s pocket.
The blonde medic races up the stairs in time to join Queen Damascena’s henchwomen in dragging Prince Kevon out of the room. Rage burns through my veins, and tears blur my vision. They want him helpless, just like me.
Garrett scoops me into his arms. “We’re going with Kevon to the hospital.”
He hurries through the aisle after the procession, but the thud of a heavy object hitting flesh makes him flinch. My stomach lurches as he tumbles onto the stairs. Garrett’s larger body breaks our fall, but he’s no longer moving.
One of the women in black pulls me from Garrett’s arms. She hooks a hand around the back of my collar and drags me down the stairs. “Your Majesty, what should we do about the girl?”
My spine bumps against the hard tread, sending sharp bursts of pain across my lungs with every step.
The ministers sitting in the seats talk among themselves, but nobody comments about Garrett or me. My insides feel as hollow as their souls. Isn’t someone going to speak up for us? Or were they so convinced by Queen Damascena’s presentation that they’ve ceded authority to her?
“Take the girl to the stadium,” says the queen.
A larger figure picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. I’m guessing it’s General Ridgeback, who is taller and broader than Prince Kevon. He walks through the side door, down several winding hallways, not saying a word about why he’s helping Queen Damascena, and not uttering anything about Berta.
He opens another door that leads to what feels like a stairwell from the way his footsteps echo. After descending several steps and exiting through another door, General Ridgeback steps into another space filled with the sound of a motor.
“When you meet my daughter, tell her she was a disappointment.” He tosses me head-first into a hard surface, and my vision goes black.
The ringing in my ears pulls me out of unconsciousness, and a sharp pain lances through my skull from hitting my head. My mouth feels like a lizard’s nest, and I can’t muster a drop of saliva to ease my dry, cracked throat.
I’m lying on my right side on a smooth surface warmed by my body heat, and sweat forms on my brow. It’s hard to tell if the room is hot or if I have a fever. Even the shallowest of breaths hurt as though something or someone has struck my ribs hard enough to shatter.
With an agonized moan, I roll onto my back, only for sunlight to shine through my eyelids.
On the plus side, I’ve regained the ability to move.
“Hello?” I croak through cracked lips.
When my eyes adjust to the light, I open them to find myself staring at a ceiling made of inch-square ventilation holes that let in vertical streams of light. From their angle, I think it’s midday. The question I want to ask is how much time has passed since the funeral, and what on earth has happened to Prince Kevon?
He’s completely at the mercy of whoever controls his heart. Right now, it’s Dr. Ridgeback, who seems to be working for Queen Damascena. Grief tightens around my throat, and I trace the pad of my thumb over the crystal-encrusted band on my finger. My ring is supposed to be a tracking device, but if Prince Kevon hasn’t come looking for me, it means they’re still torturing him.
Faint sniffles reach my ears. I drag myself across the cramped space and press my ear against the bricks.
“Is anybody there?” I whisper.
The sniffling stops.
“Hello?”
Whoever is in the other room doesn’t want to communicate, so it can’t be Emmera, who wouldn’t stop talking during our imprisonment. My mind drifts to the only other person who might be able to identify the guard I poisoned.
“Forelle?” I whisper.
Still no answer.
My brows draw together. The sounds were feminine and couldn’t have been Prince Kevon. “Are you a prisoner? Tap once for yes and two for no.”
Three heavy knocks shake on my door. “Popcorn,” says a female voice. “You have a visitor.”
Placing a hand on the wall for support, I pull myself up. Lightning bolts of pain shoot across my skull and ribcage, and I sway on my feet. I prop myself in the corner and hold both palms against the walls. The light catches my ring, which continues to blink on and off.
If this visitor is the queen, I won’t let her to see me grovel.
“Come in,” I rasp.
The door swings open, and Ambassador Pascale walks into the space. He wears a green jacket with a high collar that for once, doesn’t flash with lights. However, the buttons on his jacket shine like tiny camera lenses. He holds in his small, withered hands a box the size of a thick encyclopedia.
Light catches his glasses and obscures his eyes, so I can’t see what kind of expression he makes when the corners of his lips curl into a smile. “Miss Calico, this is indeed an unfortunate situation.”
I rub my dry throat.
�
��Forgive me.” He reaches into his box and extracts a water bottle. “I expect you’re thirsty from recent events?”
“How long have I been here?” I rasp. “Where’s Prince Kevon?”
“He is safe.” Ambassador Pascale twists open the cap and offers me the bottle. “Dr. Ridgeback informs me that the muscle relaxant she injected into you lasts forty-eight hours. It’s why I waited until now to see you.”
Out of habit, I peer at the label, which says SMOKY MOUNTAIN ENERGY. Hope fills my chest as I take long gulps of fruit-flavored water. I’ll endure anything if he helps me escape.
“Thank you.” My gaze drops to his box.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
At my nod, the ambassador returns my empty bottle to his box and pulls out a paper carton about the size of my hand. “I thought you might need something a little closer to home than trail mix.”
I stretch out my arm, and he drops the cool package in my palm. It’s heavier than a pair of earrings but lighter than a weapon.
Ambassador Pascale gives me an encouraging nod, but the sunlight still reflects on the lens of his glasses and hides his full expression. Inside are six perfectly round corn fritters, each an inch thick. I take a bite out of the first, and an avalanche of flavors floods my mouth.
The ambassador chuckles as though I’m a pet that has just learned a new trick, but I ignore him and continue eating the fritters. One contains pieces of chicken, another beef, and another prawn. That’s not all it contains because the pains shooting around my lungs ebb to a dull ache.
“Do you feel better?” he asks.
I’m about to nod, but the fog in my mind clears. The last time we spoke, Mom, Dad, and the twins were in the back of a vehicle headed for the Amstraad Embassy. Ambassador Pascale and I might be alone, but someone is probably watching our interaction. I can’t let them know who is keeping my family safe.
“Is…” I pause and give him a meaningful look. “Everything alright?” I ask.
His brows rise. “Please finish your corn cake. They’re your only chance of regaining your strength and facing the upcoming challenges.”
My breath catches. “What’s happening?”
“I visited Prince Kevon this morning.” He motions for me with his fingers to continue eating.
I bite into a fritter containing lumps of cheese. “How is he?”
“Heartbroken in both respects.” Ambassador Pascale dips his hand into the box and produces another bottle of water. “The synthetic heart muscles torment his body throughout the night, and evidence of your plot to murder him and destroy the monarchy torment his mind through the day.”
Guilt lances through my stomach, and I stop eating. Carolina once described sleep deprivation and brainwashing, the mind-altering techniques Nobles used for interrogation and control.
“I need to see him.”
The ambassador rocks forward on his feet. “To tell him what he already knows, Miss Calico? You joined the Princess Trials to find a means for the Red Runners to enter the palace and slaughter the royal family.”
My mouth clamps shut, and I lower my gaze to the stone floor. I thought the ambassador wanted me to become the Queen of Phangloria so the Amstraad Republic wouldn’t be so dependent on us for food.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“To say goodbye,” he replies.
My head snaps up. “Is this a joke? Where’s Mouse?”
Ambassador Pascale places a full bottle on the floor and steps backward. “It’s unfortunate for you and your loved ones that Prince Kevon discovered the truth. You would have made a terrific queen.”
The door opens, and the Ambassador walks out.
What about Mom, Dad, and the twins? I can’t ask out loud, but he’s implying that our deal is off. I lurch after him, knocking the water bottle aside. “Wait—”
“Sorry, Miss Calico,” he says from the hallway. “Please understand that I need to do what’s best for the Amstraad Republic.”
“What does that mean?” I rasp as the door closes and its locking mechanism whirrs. The cuff on my wrist vibrates and drops to the floor, but I can’t focus on that right now.
“Confess to whatever they want,” says the ambassador from the hallway. “And pray to your Gaia that Queen Damascena will be merciful enough to put a bullet through your head.”
“Ambassador Pascale?” My voice shakes.
When he doesn’t answer, I turn my gaze to the fritters and replay our conversation in my mind. Prince Kevon knows the truth but Queen Damascena is embellishing it with unrelated facts. The ambassador says he has given up on me but still came with a last meal and a message of goodbye.
I inhale my first deep breath since waking and feel no more aches. No wonder he urged me to continue eating. The food contained a painkiller. Maybe he wants me to save myself and meet him at the embassy to collect my family. After eating the cheese fritter, I bite into one that contains soybeans, a Harvester’s main form of protein.
Ignoring the nervousness roiling through my stomach, I finish eating the fritters and bite the final one, which contains some sort of fish. I place the carton on the floor, pick up the full water bottle, and twist its lid.
The strong scent of menthol fills my nostrils. I flinch and replace its lid. The label says, ‘DRINK ME.’
My gaze freezes on the words until their edges blur. I should trust the ambassador but he specifically came to say he could no longer help me. Anything that smells so strongly must be masking a drug even more powerful than the painkiller. The only thing I can trust is that he wants an exciting finale for his Princess Trials show.
Another locking mechanism whirrs, and I rush toward the door. “Ambassador Pascale?”
“He’s not coming,” rasps a female voice from the next cell.
“Who’s that?”
“Who do you think?” she snaps.
“Prunella?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
“What’s happening?”
“We’re in the Deimos Stadium.” Her voice is so thick with rage and bitterness that it’s hard to understand her. “The Nobles will make a spectacle of us before we die.”
“A…” I gulp. “What?”
Prunella huffs an impatient breath, and I can imagine her rolling her eyes at my ignorance. “This is what they do to criminals of interest. The first and second tier-Nobles sit in a viewing theater and enjoy watching their enemies get torn apart by wild creatures and sometimes wild men.”
“Like gladiators?”
Prunella bursts into tears. “Except that there’s no chance of getting out alive.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale a long, weary breath. Prunella has just confirmed my suspicions about the ambassador. He wants me to last as long as possible in the stadium for his people’s viewing pleasure. Nobody’s coming to save me, and the ambassador probably dumped my family on the roadside.
Scenarios whizz through my mind. The most prominent is of me standing in the middle of an amphitheater, my only protection a net and a short sword. To tie up the storylines, I’ll probably have to face the cassowary that attacked Gemini and the two ligers I escaped in the Gloria National Park. Worse. It will be wild men riding ligers.
“I never hated you,” says Prunella. “At least not at first.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to tune out what will probably be a rant about my shortcomings. I’m no longer weak with pain or hunger or thirst, my heart thrums a steady beat, and whatever was in the fritters has invigorated my body. If we’re in a stadium as Prunella says, I might have enough energy to scale a wall and escape.
Prunella sniffles. “The queen told me to do whatever was necessary to guarantee Prince Kevon a Noble bride who wasn’t Rafaela. That’s why I organized all those murder attempts, including yours and Gemini’s. She said she would make me a member of the royal court.”
I shake my head. Now I feel an idiot for casting doubt on Prunella’s guilt. “Why didn
’t you tell the Chamber of Ministers you were working for Queen Damascena?”
“She promised to send me to the stadium if I did.”
“And she sent you there anyway,” I snap.
Prunella sobs, and I drop my gaze to my bare feet. I’m a fine one to talk, seeing as I killed Berta and burned those Guardian girls’ bodies. Now, I’ve just added to her misery.
A door creaks open, and Prunella screams. Her shouts and pleas for mercy form an incoherent mess that mingles with the sound of scuffling and dragging.
I clutch the water bottle to my chest and press my ear against the door.
Someone pounds against it from the other side. “You’re next, popcorn.”
I tear off the bottle’s label, looking for instructions, a message, anything, but its underside is blank. Maybe Ambassador Pascale really meant it when he said he wasn’t going to give me any help.
Prunella’s distant screams drift through the door of my cell, but I could be mistaking the sound with birdcalls. I lower myself onto the floor and take a sip of minty water that traces a freezing path from my tongue down to my stomach. Its lining stops fluttering, and calm washes through my veins.
My gaze drops to the label I discarded on the floor. I moisten my finger with the water and rub it on its front and back. There’s a message:
We tried our best to put you on the throne, but even we could never have predicted that the man you shot from the tree was King Arias.
If it’s any consolation, your death will change the course of history.
Even the minor nobles will balk at the brutal death of a beloved public figure.
Please take the strength enhancers. Fight bravely. You will be remembered.
Whatever was in that water has numbed my reaction, but it looks like even the Amstraad Republic believed in Queen Damascena’s lies. They probably also leaked all that footage of me to NetFace.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 30
